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Full text of "The Gleaner"

GLEANER 



1992 




Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2010 with funding from 

Lyrasis Members and Sloan Foundation 



http://www.archive.org/details/gleaner92stud 



GLEANER 

1992 



established 1901 

Delaware Valley College 

Doylestown, Pennsylvania 



Co-Editors 

Judith Vogel-Bamitz 
James Mascoli 



Literary Advisors 

Edward O'Brien 
Richard Ziemer 



Proofreaders 

Judith Vogel-Barnitz 
Edward O'Brien 



Publication Advisor 

Jane H. Antheil 



Computer Technician 

Brenda Brown 



CONTRIBUTORS 



Rick Bruce 

Laurie Fleck 
Robert Frank 
James Mascoli 
Edward O'Brien 
Jennifer Orlowsky 
Erica Shick 
Hollie E. Smith 
Michael Tumolo 
Judith Vogel-Barnitz 
Richard Ziemer 

Cover drawing by Tom Brightman 



The Gleaner is published during the academic year by Delaware Valley College 
students. The Gleaner is a student publication and the opinions expressed within are 
not necessarily those of the Gleaner staff or the administration. 



Dedication 

SALLY ROYAL SMITH 

Devoted English Professor 
1972 - 1992 



elicit from the man in the doorway. It was akin to an 
alcohoHc's need for a drink or an addict's need for a fix. 

She wished it was not so important, this almost physical need 
she had for approval, the need she had for her feeling of self to 
be justified by a stranger. She knew the feelings should come 
from inside her. But knowing something and feeling it were 
two different things, and inner searching was not one of her 
strong suits. 



Summer Memories 



Jennifer Orlowsky 

Running wild in my summer sun dress 
through the thickening of the field. 

The tall grass is tickling my arms and legs 
while the sun beats upon my head. 

I spot a butterfly flying free in the sky. 

It makes a peaceful landing on a daisy. 

I stop, and watch as it feeds upon the flower. 

The warm summer air blows my 
long red hair. 

I love the summer. 



Arizona Minnows 



James Mascoli 

When you grow up you don't hear the birds. 
You look at them now, but it doesn't work. 
That's what growing up is about, it hurts. 

I flew from Chicago to LA to dive into the ocean. 
Coyotes yelping from my blood, and they moaned. 
Bats diving at my head as I slept, 
In the desert night where I was kept. 

Always escaping a city, 

I swam across a bay in Mississippi. 

The mountain tops of Colorado are barren. 

The water is cold, but not crisp in Lake Michigan. 

There are still woods, brush, and grassy fields near Chicago. 

I scooped up fish in Arizona— little minnows. 

I have seen nature and herds. 
Now I work with words. 
I explored the National Forests. 
I had to see them; it was a must. 



Good-Bve--HelIo 



Robert Frank 

Burning, Burning, twisting, turning. 
Find the key, find the door. 
Fate will do the dirty chore. 
Down you go, down the hole. 
But weep not, it's not your soul. 
Why we laugh, why we cry. 
We don't know, we just die. 
After what has been said and done, 
The best is all that is left to come. 

Flying, flying, soaring, gliding. 
They are there, because they care. 
That is why they stand and stare. 
Moving forward, looking back, 
Everyone is dressed in black. 
Climbing towards the guiding light, 
You realize why you quit the fight. 
Now you know you are not on Earth, 
And you revel in your new rebirth. 

Mother, Father, I am home. 



Beth 

James Mascoli 

Her eyes were a colorful green. They were like a cat's eyes. I 
never studied or had the chance to study them. Maybe it was 
that I wasn't at her level. She was a year behind me in high 
school. Her skin was white except were it had been exposed to 
the sun, there it was reddish-pink. (She used to bathe in the 
sun after school). I don't remember the type of clothes she 
wore. 1 do remember that I wanted to kiss this girl. 

Most of our dating took place before and after my first year of 
college. I liked her, she was lively and full of energy. Her 
hair was pure silken blonde and she was available. She was 
my dream girl, the one 1 had been looking for so long. I felt 1 
had finally found the one for me. It wasn't only that she was a 
blonde, I was attracted to everything about her. We knew 
nothing about each other, but I thought we made a great pair. 1 
found her name in the yearbook after my first faint glimpse of 
her in the hallway at high school. It was Bethel. I think her 
friends called her Beth. Beth seemed to be a name for a girl 
with a chubby face and gray, ugly glasses. It was unusual that 
she had this name. 

I never quite saw her in detail. 1 couldn't see her flaws (if she 
had any). All I could see was her vivid being. She was on a 
different plane than 1. 1 once had dated her during high school. 
We went to a Barry Manilow concert with some friends. 
Before we left for the concert I stole out of the house with a 
case of beer that we had acquired somehow. I only have the 
memory of her falling off my shoulders onto a friend's lawn 
after the show. 1 was amazed that nobody else had discovered 
this blonde haired beauty. I thought we made a good pair. I 



visited her once while she was baby sitting, but nothing 
exciting happened, and I left early in case the couple came 
home early. We wrote letters while I was in college. I 
couldn't quite explain what was happening to me. We didn't 
know a thing about each other. She wrote letters of funny 
nonsense. I wrote serious poems about loon calls and the night 
we spent dreaming on a dewy golf course. 

She was beautiful. How could anyone expect anything from 
her. Where was a princess like her supposed to work? Only 
an acting job would fit someone like her, and even for that, she 
was too beautiful. On the other hand, if she used her brains, 
she could be anything she wanted. 

As soon as the blonde-haired, lively Beth graduated from a 
medium-sized Midwest college, she became a model. After six 
months she wasn't satisfied with the pay (or future) that 
modeling offered her. She decided to go back to school for her 
MBA when she was twenty-four. They had three children and 
hired a nanny to take care of them and the house while Beth 
and her husband worked. They lived in an affluent area of 
Chicago and had both their families nearby to visit when they 
wanted to. The years passed and I almost forgot about her. 

Even though I had only dated her four or five times, I 
recognized her right away in the dining room of an 
international energy meeting in Chicago. She was still 
beautiful. I went over to her table and she recognized me. We 
talked about how I got into the energy business and about how 
long it had been since we had seen one another. Since I had 
never really known her very personally I wondered if it would 
be better just to end the conversation and part. I decided to 
part. I gave her my business card and left. 



Two months later I received a call from her. She told me she 
had moved to New Jersey with her husband and family. He 
had been transferred to a new Division, and she was looking 
for a job. I still liked her, and I knew she would never be 
satisfied as just a director. I wanted to hire her right then over 
the phone, but I decided to send her to Human Resources for 
an interview. Once all the formalities were taken care of, it 
was my job to do the hiring. 

I hired her as Vice-President, and we built a great future 
together. I set the company's goals, and she had the energy 
and intelligence to carry them out with me. I let her know she 
was always free to leave and start her own company if she 
wished. This made our relationship compatible. I thought she 
had the ability to start her own company, but I wasn't sure if 
she really wanted to. I never brought up the issue again 
because I liked having her just where she was. We built over 
forty percent of the U.S. solar energy plants and supplied the 
nation with a healthy fraction of its energy. When I was 
seventy-five years old, my money was working for me in 
various investments. My unsure relationship with Beth had 
turned into a full and productive one. 



The Spirit to Be Free 



Laurie Fleck 

Admiring the beach, smelling the sea air, the moon was full 
and there was a mist in the air. No noise was to be heard, not 
even the crash of a wave. All you could see was the reflection 
of the moon on the peaceful sea. All of a sudden, a whirling 
wind came about, and out of nowhere appeared a little girl. 
She had eyes of silver, hair of gold. Her clothes were white 
and black, and her shoes were the same. She had a child's 
face and a mysterious grin. As she looked around, all she 
could see was endless sand and the sea. She had nowhere to 
run, no place to go, no purpose to be there, except to get away 
and dream, or just get away. She strolled along the crest of the 
sand and admired the free waters and felt how it was to be 
free— no worries in the world. 

She was feeling a bit scared on her own, when all of a sudden, 
out of the blue came a trotting pony kicking up sand as he ran. 
She noticed the pony as it came towards her, for it was 
friendly. She climbed up onto it, and they rode up and down 
the beach coast feeling the breeze and the motion. 

The next morning rolled around with the sun rising and 
reflecting on the water. The girl wanted so much to keep the 
pony, but then she realized that she didn't want the 
responsibility of taking care of it and thought back to what she 
had felt about being free, and decided that the pony would be 
better off free, also. They played for a bit more until the sun 
was all the way up, and the colors of orange, red, and yellow 
no longer reflected on the blue sea. She let the pony go on its 
way, and as it did she waved good-bye. Right then and there, 



just as the girl had come, she left with a whirl of the wind. 
Now they were both free! 

In every living thing is the spirit to be free! 



Tomorrow 



Robert Frank 

A moment of silence, then a blinding light, 
The earth trembles, as if filled with fright. 
Glowing clouds and burning skies, 
No one can quiet their screaming cries. 
Darkened hollows and twisted shapes, 
Death and destruction hides and waits. 
Blackened earth and blood red seas, 
Nothing can grow out of plague and disease. 
But most certainly, only the strong will survive. 
Years will pass and wounds will heal. 
Barbarians will rule with flesh and steel. 
Now we live in savage times, 
God forgive us — and our crimes. 



Untitled 

Michell Tumolo 

You entered my life so— 

Unexpectedly 

I experienced a rebirthofsorts— 

When I met You 

my dull, dormant life became 

Alive! Vibrant! 

Colored like a child's coloring book 

Beautifully colored with life. 

Then 

Suddenly 

After only one short week 

The rain returned 

The clouds rolled back into my life. 

You moved on 

And 

My roommate's life brightened. 



10 



Essence and Ism 



Richard Ziemer, Ph.D. 

The one essential 
Of an existential 
Is me, myself, and I. 

Yet the unity of such entities 

Adds essences 

Which some may deny. 

For essences and Isms 
Are paradoxical chasms 
O'er which no spans exist. 

"Mind of Idealism 

And matter of Realism 

Offer no solution," 

Say I's philosophical pollution, 

"Of what my mind has wrought. 

If "isms" flourish 
Only to wax and vanish, 
When will we see the quietism 
of existentialism? 



11 



The Joumey 

Judith Vogel-Barnitz 

I have been on a journey. 
I have walked through pages 

crisp and new 
And tread on tattered bits 

of yellow leaves. 
I have searched for an ending 
And peered through a tunnel 

with no light. 
I have run from the ignorance 

of narrow minds, 
And the hollowness 

of shallow hearts. 

It has been a journey of searching, 

Of inquiry and strange music. 

Lyric poems uttered with turgid tongues, 

And the sounds of The Beat 

Sung with a pulsing, rhythmic resonance. 

Soon my journey will end. 

I will touch the sacred parchment roll 

And smile a smile long coming 

And hug those dear 

Who walked with me, 

Who shared my journey. 

And touched my shaking heart 

With soothing fingers. 



I have walked farther 
Than I thought I ever could 
Ever would. 

Soon I will come home. 



Myself 



Rick Bruce 

I stand in a crowd 

Yet I stand alone. 

Amongst the greatest temptations 

I am myself. 



13 



The Flock 

Erica Shick 

The moon shone clearly, illuminating everything with an 
almost unearthly glow, and the silence was broken by the 
occasional bleat of a sheep, or the sharp ring of a hoof striking 
stone. 

The young shepherd boy whistled softly for his dog and stood 
waiting while the wind blew his bangs across his face. As he 
reached up to flick them from his eyes, his dog trotted out of 
the darkness, eyes bright with excitement. The boy gave a 
command to the dog, which stood silently and stared intently at 
the herd, beginning his nightly vigilance. The young shepherd 
then reached into his shirt, withdrew a worn, wooden flute and 
walked over to a large boulder, his sandals kicking the pebbles 
from his path. He clambered up on the rock which overlooked 
the herd, situated himself as comfortably as he could and began 
to play. 

The notes came slowly at first, unsure of direction, but as the 
boy found a path for his music, a hauntingly rich melody 
flowed from his instrument. 

The flock pressed closer together, drawing from each other 
warmth, contentment, and to some extent, a semblance of 
protection. Around them the wind began to intensify, and the 
treetops swayed back and forth, creaking their protest with 
every change of direction. 

At his lookout, the dog stirred, lifting his nose to scent the 
wind. After two deep puffs, he rose quickly, the hairs on his 
neck standing straight up, giving him an impressive mane. 



Growling softly, nose wrinkled and lips rippling with every 
breath, he walked stiffly toward the edge of darkness and stood 
waiting defiantly for whatever it was to reveal itself. 

The intruder never came to light, instead it retreated to some 
primeval instinct and fled. The watchdog returned to his post 
and continued the surveillance of his charges. 

The young herder throughout the excitement has played his 
flute, unfazed by what has passed. He played the tune as he 
did every night. It was very beautiful, enticing and dangerous. 

Quietly, in little groups of two or three, other animals of the 
wood came to the edge of the darkness, unmolested by the dog. 
There were rabbits, foxes, owls and other animals, prey and 
predators all together, held in a trance by the wonderful music 
coming like magic from the boy and his simple piece of hollow 
wood. 

The speed and force of the music increased, conveying an 
unnatural urgency to its listeners. Slowly, something began to 
happen, first to the smaller animals, them moving on to the 
larger ones. 

What happened was nothing like a fairy tale. The 
transformation did not happen instantaneously and painlessly. 
Instead, the meadow was filled with the pitiful screams and 
howls as the animals were molded into their new form. Bones 
were broken and reshaped, skin and fiir were shed for a new 
coat of dense wool. Talons and paws were sculptured into 
hooves, with bone cracking sounds. After it had begun, it 
required only a few minutes to accomplish the metamorphosis. 



15 



The new sheep stood defiantly as the dog began to herd them 
into the group. Their eyes still showed the fear and amazement 
of what had just occurred. Eventually, as the memories faded 
away, they gave in to the incessant prodding of the dog, slowly 
becoming part of the seemingly endless mass of wool covered 
bodies. And, as the last lingering recollection became hazy and 
was finally lost, these new sheep began to munch ravenously at 
the cool grass of the meadow. 

The shepherd boy's tune finally stopped. He slid off the stone 
and walked into the dark woods as the sun began to spill into 
the hidden valley while the birds began singing about the 
glories and wonders of nature. 



16 



Forgotten Eves 



Hollie E. Smith 

My senses are heightened, 

But my hands are numb. 

The murmurs of the people around me are not in my language. 

They buzz like flies, 

And I am excluded from the cacophonous parody of the music 

they hum. 
I am a ghost. 

Ephemeral tears glisten on my pale cheeks. 
My eyes are the color of dried blood, 
My footsteps make no sound. 
As 1 reach to touch the face of a loved one, 
My hand passes through them. 
And all they might be able to feel is a soft breeze, 
Which may not feel anything like my fingertips. 
O sorrow-filled world, you tease me so! 
Why, why keep your servant locked away like this, within 

these feelings of flesh that did not die when flesh perished 

but instead were a thousand-fold intensified and wrack me 

with pain?! 
Such.. .sweet.. .pain... 
Is this hell? 
Why am I so damned? 

God! speak to me! You are the only one who hears! 
Love! Look at me! 
But alas, you are blind, 
And I, 1 am alone. 
Forever a shadow, behind the light of the sun... 



17 



A Soldier's Death 



Rick Bruce 

Bombs drop by 

And thoughts of death 

Weigh heavily in my head. 

It's not my time. 

I don't want to be dead. 

The noises so loud 

—a flash 

And a mushroom cloud, 
My life is near end. 
I lay down my arms, 

My manhood 
And cry, 

~I pray 
Though I've never walked in His house before 

—I pray to live 
Or at least to die, in His castle. 



Remembering Fr. Edward Gannon. SJ. 

Edward O 'Brien, Jr. 

In September 1954 I was entering my junior year at St. 
Joseph's College, Philadelphia, and eager to begin the courses 
in philosophy that the Jesuits offered. Living in close 
proximity to the Jesuit ambience, and to the beauty of the 
Gothic building and tower, I thought myself fortunate. The 
college appeared like a castle where the benefits of friendship, 
books and religion were obtainable. 

Into this small but, I felt, select academic world, swept the 
Reverend Edward Gannon, S.J., just back from Europe where 
he had taken his doctorate in philosophy from the University of 
Lxjuvain. To me, and to others of our circle. Father Gannon 
seemed exotic and continental. There was something French 
about him. 

In 1954 Edward Gannon was about forty, youthful in 
appearance, short, with large eyes, neatly combed hair. He 
often sported a long black cloak and one of those round black 
hats worn by priests in Europe. He made an unusual figure 
strolling around the campus in that cloak and hat. A story 
went around that he had played a Latin-American dance 
number, "Tico-Tico," on the chapel organ of a Jesuit novitiate 
while the novices were praying. This anecdote may sound 
tame today, but then it seemed a daring caper. 

"Pierre," as some called him, was brilliant, learned and witty 
— with his easy grasp of complexity, his mastery of the 
fluent explanation, of the subtle reference, the clever aside, the 
intellectual joke, the surprising paradox, the decisive point — 
the nail driven home; in, snug, done. Is it any wonder he 



19 



knocked us off our feet? 

Father Gannon had taught at St. Joseph's before and now with 
his doctorate he was given, so he told us, a "select" group of 
fifty students culled from the class of '56. I was lucky enough 
to get in that group of fifty, though my grades were not 
impressive. We pitied others less fortunate who were excluded 
and had to accept other teachers. We quickly decided that we 
were the best class! 

Anyway, we were eager to study this challenging subject called 
philosophy. Even before coming to St. Joseph's, I had a 
hunger for philosophy. Thus I wanted to win my spurs on the 
jousting fields of dialectic. Boyishly, like young Gareth on his 
way to Court, I desired to win the sword of knowledge so that 
I might come to the city of understanding. And now, in the 
autumn of 1954, it seemed possible that such a sword lay 
almost within my grasp. 

The first hour in class with Father Gannon was a remarkable 
experience. He sat behind his desk and talked very quietly and 
effectively about our life as students. We had listened to 
teachers before, but there had been nothing like this. He told 
us that as juniors we should be entering on the high-tide of our 
collegiate life, for we had left behind the uncertain freshman 
and sophomore years and yet still stood within the bosom of 
the college. Junior year should therefore be the time when we 
must put forth all our efforts to enter fully into our experience 
at St. Joseph's. This inspirational talk provided the best single 
hour I ever spent in class. I think every one of us had been 
deeply stirred by his words that day, and they had their effect, 
for that year was a sunburst of intellectual activity and 
participation in the life of the college. 



2 



As students of this new teacher, we thought we were on the 
threshold of something ultimate, something which would put 
the seal of truth on to our view of life. We thought we were 
going to "get everything settled," to slay all dragons of error, 
and to apprehend all principles of knowledge. 

How could any teacher possibly fulfill these expectations? I 
suppose we were lucky that he did what he did. Edward 
Gannon did not let us down. At least as we were constituted at 
that time of our lives, he satisfied our need for philosophic 
truth. By his command over words and ideas, by his grasp of 
the world and his knowledge of the Church, he made us accept 
the belief that philosophy was truly that humble and obedient 
servant of faith, that trustworthy handmaiden of theology which 
the men of Middle Ages had said she was. He put us in touch 
with an ancient yet living tradition and made us feel a part of 
it. 

There were, of course, things about Father Gannon that put you 
off. He had an abrupt way of saying things about you, to your 
face, that you didn't want to hear. Perhaps he overvalued the 
fashionable existentialists. But these are minor issues, for he 
was really concerned with preparing us for life in the world. 
He thought highly of good manners and etiquette, and stressed 
the importance of the adult world and, like St. Paul, thought we 
should get on with our jobs. He therefore never courted the 
favor of the young, never pretended nor let us pretend that 
youth could dictate to age and experience. He did not use dirty 
words, nor slang, nor try to be one of the boys. I suspect that 
the attempt to be "hip" or "cool" would have disgusted him. 
He held himself at a friendly distance from his students. When 
he had finished what he had to say, he went off. We didn't see 
much of him after class; his life was larger than the campus. 



21 



You can look at philosophy as a smorgasbord where different 
kinds of food are spread out; some of the food is good to eat; 
some of it isn't. Some of it is poison. At this table, not only a 
little, but a lot of knowledge, can be a dangerous thing. One 
needs a gourmet guide to find what will nourish the spirit; 
exotic and tempting is the table of philosophy, and humility is 
necessary for he who would drink the wine of the intellect. 

What did Edward Gannon teach us that could stick to the ribs? 
Certain principles have come through: that there is such a thing 
as unchanging truth; that when something is proven true, it 
should be acted on, if possible; if proven false, it should be 
discarded; that something can be immaterial yet real; and if 
you contradict yourself, you don't make sense. Humanism is 
not enough, and cynicism is cheap, and extreme skepticism is 
stupid. Philosophy was subordinate to human relationships. 
The recommended entree was Christian realism. 

Reprinted from 

Homiletic and Pastoral Review 

April, 1985 



22 



stupidity 

Michell Tumolo 

You would have thought that I'd learned 

—the first time. 

That things just weren't meant to be. 

You hurt me so deeply~my heart is still broken. 

But that didn't stop me 

From doing it again. 

The first time was different 

You loved me But 

I cared for another. 



Now 



The roles are reversed 
I love you 



and 



You love another 

I do not know 

which is worse 
The broken heart (yet unmended) 
Or my stupidity— 
For the second time 
it surely is 

STUPIDITY 



23 



Prince in Mv Dreams 



Hollie E. Smith 

Where are you my love? 

I see your fece so clearly in my dreams. 

Dark, dark hair frames your sculpted face, 

Raven's wings folded against your brow. 

Your eyes are like stars in the night. 

Orb-like windows to your most naked soul. 

Pools of deepest, clearest water in which I drown, locked in 

your loving gaze. 
Ah, to be let in so deep, to touch so intimately without ever 

lifting a hand. 
To be kissed so sweetly by feathery lips, like the tentative 

touch of the head of a downy baby bird. 
Yet the feelings that touch awakens are filled with passion 

fervored and strong. 
Your frame brings my Artist's Blood boiling to the surface, 

begging me to put its perfection on paper to be preserved 

forever for my fantasies. 
Strong, loving arms that hold me so tightly against your 

beating heart. 
Muscles rippling underneath back, chest and legs, reminding 

me of some great panther crouching, eyes wild and feral in 

the ecstasy of physical strength and endurance, waiting for 

its moment to spring. 
And only I may tame this beast. 
He loves only me. 

But sadly, he exists only in my dreams. 
Riding his black horse over the misty moors of some faraway 

country to me, so we may spend what little time we have 

together with our love. 
Hearing his soft, musical voice whisper words of tenderness 



24 



undying, of passion that will last forever. 

Promising that someday more than just our spirits will meet, 

Someday flesh will touch flesh. 

And I will no longer have to sleep to be in his arms... 



Some Children Live Like Gods 



James Mascoli 

I was striving 
For one more moment. 
One more piece of life. 
A touch of soil. 
One more game 
Of dodgeball. 
Just one more day 
Of play. 



25 



Fluff 

Richard Ziemer, Ph.D. 

Once upon a mealtime dreary, 
While we labored long and weary 
Shelling shrimp and food for mortals, 
Came this feline to our portal. 

White she was and free of tether. 
Licking whiskers soft and fine. 
But alas, she had no collar; 
"Fluff" became her name in time. 

AristoCATically espoused us, 

Claimed our Persian rugs for lairs. 

Whisker Lickens as her menus. 

Made her meals from Checkerboard Square. 

Her curious reluctance to leave 
Convinced us that she liked our fare. 
And since that day eight years ago 
Has spent the best of nine lives here. 



26 



My Dreams 

Jennifer Orlowsky 

Many things happen that 

we cannot explain. 
Often these things are 

in my dreams. 
There are times when a 

silence fills the air, 
Or the clouds circle above 

my head and cry. 
I dream of the plains, 

stretching on forever, 
And the morning dew glistening 

on the new spring grass. 
I dream of the mountains casting 

a shadow from the sun's rays. 
While the birds fly free 

in the open sky. 
Aren't my dreams beautiful? 



It makes a peaceful landing on a daisy. 
I stop, and watch as it feeds upon the flower. 
The warm summer air blows my 
long red hair. 
I love the summer. 



27